


Crowned By An Overture (Where You Go, I'm Going)

by HeavensCrack



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a (sort of?) Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Inspired by The Song of Achilles, M/M, This Is Sad, if you've read it... you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:53:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27639155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeavensCrack/pseuds/HeavensCrack
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier's song ends. Jaskier gets left behind.Or, The Song of Achilles inspired Geraskier that nobody asked for.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60





	Crowned By An Overture (Where You Go, I'm Going)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of me reading TSOA in one sitting last night and looping Achilles, Come Down by Gang of Youths for at least 12 hours. It's still playing, y'all. Share my pain. 
> 
> So many thanks to KHansen for beta-ing! 
> 
> This is (very) heavily inspired by the final chapter in The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller, and the title is from Achilles, Come Down. I own none of the rights to any of these.

They fall. 

Their song ends in the crunch of bone and spray of blood, the final crescendo of screaming before the rest, and the melody fades out. 

Jaskier’s harmony ends first, a claw tearing out his throat almost before he knows what’s happening. He crashes to his knees, feeling the hot blood pour down his pulsing neck, unable to answer Geralt’s roar of anguish when his face meets the dirt. 

Geralt continues to play, the staccato notes angry and frantic now, but he is too sloppy, his body playing larghetto in an orchestra of prestissimo. They tear at his calves, bringing him to the ground, but he still crawls between the fleders and Jaskier. Trying to save him until the end. He manages to plunge his silver dagger deep into the eye of one of the fleders before the others are on top of him, gleefully ripping into flesh and muscle, trying to bite and drink the blood that sustains them.

They had been surprised, the creatures flying down at them when they were sleepy and sated, no time to put on armour or drink the Black Blood that would choke the vampires. 

Geralt lashes out with his silver sword, loping the heads off the final two. He drags his bitten and battered body to Jaskier, collapsing in the bloody dirt. 

Geralt’s symphonic movement ends moments later, with guts hanging out of his stomach and an uneasy silence. Their song has ended.

Not too long after, a traveller with two swords comes, smelling the blood. 

He looks around the camp, assessing the scene. Two bedrolls shoved together under a tree, the scent of sex and confusion and _fear_ still clinging firmly to the fabric. Clothes and torn bags strewn, potions scattered and smashed from where they rolled out of the bags and likely stepped on. A dagger sticking out of the corpse of one monster, swords discarded beside others. 

The bodies of two men, a witcher and another naked man, almost touching, but not quite. They weren’t prepared for an attack. 

He kneels down beside Geralt, flipping the broken man over. The man grabs the stained medallion, yellow-green eyes widening at the stamped wolf. 

“This is going to kill Lambert,” the unknown witcher whispers. _Lambert, Lambert, what a prick._ Lambert! They get to go home. 

The witcher gently removes the medallion from Geralt’s neck, pocketing it. He turns, stalking into the forest. He reappears carrying an armful of wood. Again and again he disappears, until he has a large pile. The branches and logs are meticulously stacked, creating a large pyre. 

Geralt is carefully lifted on, arranged neatly, hands tucked over his torn chest. Despite that, he looks almost peaceful, like he could be sleeping.

After a couple moments of consideration, Jaskier is tossed on top of Geralt. 

He’s expecting to feel something, anything, when he is across Geralt’s chest. There’s nothing, no sensation at all. He can’t feel Geralt’s too cold flesh against his, he can’t smell the musk of week-old sweat or horse or leather. He can’t hear Geralt’s heartbeat. There is nothing. 

The witcher casts Igni, and the flames lick across their final embrace, but Jaskier still cannot feel. 

“I’ll take you home, Wolf,” the man promises. He tacks poor Roach and straps Geralt’s swords onto the packs, looking once more at the burning fire and leading the distressed horse away. 

Geralt is going home. 

Jaskier is watching himself burn. 

The pyre smoulders until dawn, the wind carrying the billowing smoke along with Jaskier’s already forgotten name. 

The clearing does not stay empty. It is morning when the portal opens, a wild-haired witch hurtling out. Her eyes land on the pyre before scanning the rest of the camp. This is his only chance. He does not think he will see anyone else. 

_Yennefer, please._ His voice would crack if he had one. He doesn’t. _Yennefer. Yennefer, please listen to me._

She shows no sign of hearing, just picks up a shard of glass. She looks unaffected, but he can see the unshed tears in her eyes. No matter how upset she was at Geralt, it’s very clear she doesn’t want him dead. 

_Yennefer. Please. Please._

_Yennefer. Yenn, PLEASE. WHY CAN’T YOU HEAR ME?_

She rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands, sniffling slightly. 

He used to pity wraths, the spirits who became so angry in death they lost their minds. Now he can understand them. Is this how they all feel? Is this what it’s like to be forgotten and left to linger? Is he only meant to be a stain in the dirt? 

_YENNEFER._

Why can’t she hear him? Is she not the one who’s supposed to be able to read minds? He can’t let her leave. He can’t be left behind, not again. She’s his only hope, the only one who can understand. 

_DON’T LEAVE ME HERE, YOU WICKED BITCH. DON’T LEAVE ME TO ROT._

Yennefer flinches slightly. She looks around, seeing nothing. Her features settle into a scowl. 

_Yennefer._

“Jaskier?” 

_You can hear me? You can hear me!_

“What the fuck?”

_Help me._

“What are you? Why do you sound like the annoying bard?” her lips curls. She’s not taking this seriously. She doesn’t believe him. 

_You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Do you enjoy tormenting me? Is it not enough that I am dead? You heartless-_

“Don’t you dare,” she hisses. 

_Help me,_ he pleads. _Help me._

“What happened? I can’t help you if I don’t know.” 

He does not have a voice, but he can still sing. He is made of memories, with only songs as the messenger. He sings Yenn all their songs, ending on the broken note of their final melody. He starts again, a simple tune, of discovery and abandonment. His witcher was taken home, to be remembered and mourned. Jaskier is not important enough to have a home. None will mourn him. He is alone, the ashes of him and his love long scattered by now. 

“What can I do?” Yenn whispers, the tears finally falling. 

_Take me to him. Let my name be carved beside his. Let me follow him. If you’ve ever held affection for him, please. I know you hate me, but do it for him. Don’t let him be alone._

“I don’t hate you,” she says. “I never hated you.” 

_Remember me. Carve my name with his. Let me be free._

“I will,” she vows. Another portal is opened, and she steps through, and Jaskier is alone. 

There is a field in Kaer Morhen, too many stones stacked up with too many names, the cold sun setting rows of metal alight. 

The tips of the swords are freshly plunged into the dirt beside the newest stone, the carved name only moments old. The witchers stand stoically, the four of them not allowing the grief to cross their faces. The green-eyed witcher grasps onto the shoulder of the red-haired one whose eyes are burning with fury and loss too profound to name. 

Yennefer portals to the keep, her face already well-known by the old man who looks bent with the weight of the world. He guides her to the field wordlessly. It doesn’t take long to find the tombstone. 

She strokes the freezing stone, stifling a sob. He wasn’t supposed to go yet, she wasn’t ready to forgive him. They were supposed to meet again, and argue, then make up and leave and repeat. Years down the line, they were supposed to get close again, and actually become friends. They were supposed to hold each other and mourn the losses of their mortal friends, the rare ones they made, as everyone aged and withered and they remained the same. They should’ve had centuries. 

They don’t have centuries, they don’t have any time at all. Geralt is gone, and so are all her hopes of what they could’ve been. 

She remembers her promise, letting the chaos create a sharp nail. She drags it over the stone, under Geralt’s name. _Jaskier,_ she writes, because as far as they’re concerned, Julian Alfred Pankratz never existed. Jaskier did, and he was loved.

She hears a faint laugh in the wind. 

Somewhere else, Jaskier jumps into Geralt’s arms and Geralt spins him in a crushing embrace. They link their fingers, smiling, knowing they have forever. 

Their song has ended, but they have an eternity to write a new one. The voices of the witcher and the bard rise again in harmony, never to fade again.


End file.
